


Snippet

by pasiphile



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Jim Moriarty is batshit insane, M/M, Psychopaths In Love, Sebastian Moran is a cold-hearted bastard, Snippet, UST, scary sniper ninja with a psychotic boyfriend, shameless self-promotion, sniping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-22
Updated: 2012-10-22
Packaged: 2017-11-16 20:19:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/543430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasiphile/pseuds/pasiphile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moran has been working directly for Moriarty for a few months. After a few initial difficult moments (Moran talking back to Moriarty,  Moriarty making thinly veiled threats to Moran) they're starting to relax around each other. Well, I say relax...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snippet

**Author's Note:**

> This can be read as a standalone. However, it is part of a larger fic - 86.000 words, to be precise - which is still being beta'd.
> 
> So, consider this to be a free sample, trying to lure you into a world of questionable sex, unconscionable violence and psychopaths in love.

Knightsbridge never stops being irritating to you, but sometimes it simply brings out the vandal in you. There are more fancy cars here than in an average episode of Top Gear, and you are  _itching_  to get your keys out and do some damage to those expensive paint jobs, or break a few rear-view mirrors. Childish, but it would be so rewarding.

You doubt Moriarty would approve, though.

You give a little wave at the security camera and the door buzzes. He doesn't have a doorbell, for some reason. You didn't ask.

Upstairs, Moriarty is sitting at the table, arms resting on the surface and chin resting on his arms. There's a briefcase in front of him.

'I heard you were good with a sniper rifle,' he mumbles. Your eyes fall to the briefcase. 'It's an L115, should be familiar.'

You flip open the case. 'It's been modified.'

He sits back and stretches his arms above his head. 'Yes, I took off the barrel and made it removable, it's easier to carry it around like that.'

'Yeah, but you - ' You pause as your brain catches up with his words. 'Sorry,  _you_  made it removable?'

'Well, yes, I'm a bit of amateur-engineer. You were saying?'

'What? Oh, yes. You risk losing the zero, unless you know what you're doing and - '

'Are you suggesting I don't know what I'm doing?' he asks casually.

'No-o, I'm saying it's bloody difficult to do right and I don't want it to explode in my face.'

'It won't. If I wanted you dead I'd have it done in a neater way.' He grins. 'Although it would be funny.'

You decide not to think about that too much and assemble the rifle. All the parts screw in smoothly enough. You raise it to your shoulder and look down the scope.

Moriarty wolf-whistles.

'It'll do,' you decide, and start taking it apart again.

'Good. Hurry up then, I'm getting tired of waiting.'

You put all the parts back in the case and look up to see Moriarty putting on his coat. 'You're coming along?'

'Well, yes, I want to see it done. I've never seen a stealth kill before.' He sounds almost wistful.

'It's – it's nothing special, sitting around and waiting, mostly. You'll be bored out of your mind.'

He loops his scarf around his neck. 'I'm starting to think you don't want me around. Are you telling me what to do, now?'

'Of course not.'

'Of course not,' he repeats. 'Coming?'

You take the case and follow him out of the door.

***

The car pulls up in front of a block of flats and Moriarty leads you up to the twelfth floor. You set up near the window, moving with almost no conscious thought. It's been over a year since you last did this, but muscle memory is an amazing thing.

Although there are differences. When you're done, Moriarty comes over to stand behind you. He wraps his arms loosely around your neck and leans his chin on the top of your head, looking outside the window. You grit your teeth.

It would be wrong to say Moriarty doesn't know the meaning of the words personal space, 'cause he does. He took  _personal space_  and tore it to pieces and set it on fire, dancing gleefully in the ashes.

The man would crawl inside your skin if he could.

And he  _never stops_. He leads you around by your arm, pushes you in place with a hand between your shoulder blades, leans in close enough to brush his mouth against your ear when he gives you instructions. More than once you were tempted to tell him to fuck off, but you doubt that would go very well. It's distracting as hell.

It's more than just distracting, to be honest. You're starting to  _react_  to him when he's near, and it's doing a number on your sex drive. And it's not as if you can do anything about it. You can't imagine  _hey boss, fancy a quick shag?_  going down well in any shape or size.

He disentangles from you with one last pat on your shoulder and saunters over to the other end of the room.

 _'_ So, which do you prefer then?' he asks.

You look up from the scope. 'Sorry?'

He rolls his eyes at you. 'Men or women. Boys or girls.'

You lean back, considering your answer.

'I don't see,' you say slowly, 'how my sexual preferences are of any relevance to you.'

Moriarty smiles delicately. 'Don't you? And that wasn't an answer, by the way.'

You rest the rifle on the tripod and run your gloved hand through your hair. 'Both, neither, I don't know. It depends. But men are easier, generally.'

 _What about you_ , you almost ask. You've seen the way he looks at you sometimes, and he has a habit of flirting aggressively with whomever he meets, but you always figured it was just another intimidation technique. It's not like you can take anything he does or says at face value.

And if he does have a sex life, he's really fucking discreet about it. There are no rumours of lovers, no traces of other people in his flat, nothing. For all you know he could be asexual. Much to your frustration.

'Wake up, Moran, our target's home,' he snaps at you. You pull of your right glove with your teeth and put in your earplugs – bright fluorescent pink, did you mention he has a sense of humour? – and your focus narrows, until all you're aware of is the circle of your scope and the blood rushing through your veins.

You can see the man come through the door. You hold your breath, count your heartbeats. It isn't that great a distance, you can easily aim at his head.

The apricot. Destroy the medulla oblongata, sever his spinal chord, a one-shot kill. You can hardly remember the last time you did this, in Afghanistan the targets were usually too far away to attempt anything but a body shot.

Time slows, the way it always does, your awareness defined by the man in the room opposite. All else fades. You pull the trigger.

The bullet hits him squarely between the eyes. When you pull out your earplugs Moriarty is cackling. You take apart the gun and leave him to it.

'Gosh, that was fun, wasn't that fun?' he breathes after a while. You close the briefcase with an audible click. 'Honestly, I don't know why you left the army, if you got to do  _that_  all day.'

'Mainly because they  _wouldn't_  let me do that all day.'

He wipes the tears from his eyes. 'Humourless bunch. Anyway, the rifle didn't explode! That's a relief, isn't it?'

You whirl around. 'You said - '

'I say a lot of things, doesn't mean they're true.' And when he sees your expression, he adds, 'Oh, don't look so scared, I was almost entirely sure it was safe. And what's life without a little risk, hm? Come on, I'll drop you off at that hole you call home, or somewhere quite close anyway, I'm not going near the estates again unless I absolutely have to.' He snaps his fingers and you follow.

This would be a good time to quit. He almost certainly wouldn't let you, but you could disappear, join some mercenary company, you have had quite a few offers. He's a psychopath, that just got pretty bleeding obvious, and you should leave as soon as possible. It's only common sense.

You won't, though. You're already in too deep.


End file.
